Nothing at all
by JTheClivaz
Summary: Drabbles based on random things that rattle through my head. Make of them what you will.
1. Nothing at all

Radom drabble fic about a really, really overworked Shepard on her way to her trail.

Shepard was smiling when they put her in the _Normandy's _newly constructed brig. James Vega was, understandably confused by this. Approaching the Women lying on Cell's bed, which was hard by anyone's standards, Vega cleared his throat and asked a rather pertinent question.

"Um, Commander? Can I ask why you are smiling at this point in time. It hardly seems like the most opportune moment for smiling." He said, rather hesitantly.

"Because, Lieutenant, despite, no _because_ I am in a cell with no chance of escape, I can finally do nothing at all."


	2. Who are you

**Who are you?**

"Who are you?" I ask, pointing the Carnifex at the balcony where my thermals told us she would be. We had shot up an entire base full of Mercs just to get here, just in time to see her butcher (and butcher really was the only word to use, given that each of his internal organs appeared to be in their own corners of the room) the commander here, a brute of a Batarian _female, _surprisingly enough. The Hemogany's restrictive caste structure meant that the women _did not fight. _End of. The sons of house such and such went to war. The daughters where married off when it was politically expedient to do so. Or if you suitable match was to be found, the slavers were always giving good prices on pretty females.

This particular specimen, (whose name escaped me, as well as her face, eyes and jaw: The Eyes were a particularly sore point for Batarians, for as well as having four of them, they believed that their soul left their body through their eyes when they died to go to heaven or whatever, so having no eyes was basically consigned them to hell or something. I didn't really care for the specifics) would have worked five times as hard for half the recognition as her male colleagues, and so must have been a real hard-ass to make up for it. She must have been too good at her job, as the Blood-pack and Eclipse had pooled their funds to hire the 'Death Angel' to make her disappear.

The treatment she had received was, in a word, horrifying, and we all (keep in mind my party contained a merc of at least 30 years' experience, a Turian Vigilante and me, Commander Fucking Shepard, back from the clutches of Laverna, my namesake, because apparently the rest of humanity couldn't find it's collective arse with both hands and a map. But I digress.

This treatment had been given to every Batarian in the building, and I wasn't sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing that I wasn't vomiting at the sight anymore.

The voice replied with a mocking laugh and a derisive snort. That _laugh. _My eyes narrowed. How could it be so different and yet sound _so similar?_

Then words, and the same unanswerable question:

"Who, Commander? Who? I would have thought someone like you would have known better than to ask Who?"

"What should have I asked then?" I parried playing for time to formulate a riposte.

"_What_, Commander. _What_ is what you should have asked. Who someone claims to be is little more than words and an attachment to them. What someone is, is far more important.

For I have been many thing throughout my life. The Daughter, The Slave, the Rebel, the Assassin. I have been the assassin since the age of twenty two, plying my trade out of boredom, hate and a need to eat and drink. I've killed countless people. Shot them. Knifed them. Manipulated their environment. Manipulated their words and their actions in ways that brought them death. I've had men beg for life, offer me all they had for it. Some of them were rich. _Very _rich. I'm killed billionaires. Always for a pittance of what I could of them if I accepted their offers. Why? Because I _kill, _commander. I'm a sadist and I don't give a _fuck _who knows it.

The rebel was fun. Ended up have men and women all willing to die for me. Out of _fear. _I'm more scary than death when I want to be. All I wanted was a fucking ship of that Fucking hell-hole. But no. They had to make it difficult. Arseholes.

The slave was the most useful. It taught me how to inflict and how to take pain. How to use fear and intimidation How to resist it. Smashing rocks all day long in sweltering heat while people died around me taught how to not give a fuck. It taught me to survive on little food and little water. It taught me that I was strong while others were weak. It taught me that I could take the crack of the whip and remain _standing, _if I only imagined tearing the overseer apart. Being a Slave taught me to _hate, _Commander. And how to use hate: To survive, to kill, to take pain with a smile on your face.

But the daughter is the most important, Commander. Because it's the reason that I'm here, and not out the door and far away. Because to you, I'm something to you that I'm to no one else. Because while I was a daughter, I was a sibling. A Younger Sibling.

We are both named after Roman Goddesses, Laverna. You, the Goddess of the underworld, thieves and robbers. Me, Bellona, Goddess of War, born on the third of June.

Mother really was a classics professor, wasn't she, Sister?"


End file.
